The Shadow - The Key Part 5

Verbeck mumbled. He nodded. With sudden determination, he pounced upon a telephone book and hurriedly opened the pages until he found the name of Lester Dorrington. Verbeck's mind was made up, he was determined to call the attorney who was handling Dilgin's estate.

Verbeck gripped the telephone. He was facing the corner where the safe was located. He had not noticed that the door of the office had opened to the extent of two inches. Receiver in hand, Verbeck began to dial. It was then that a hair-streaked hand crept through the opening of the door and pressed the light switch.

As the office was plunged in darkness, Hugo Verbeck uttered a startled cry. He swung toward the door, which was opening to its full extent. The lawyer's body was silhouetted against the dull light of the window.

A revolver roared. Three shots came in quick succession, accompanied by bursts of flame that seemed like darts projected toward Verbeck's form. His cry ending in a rattled gurgle, Hugo Verbeck collapsed.

His body fell across the desk; his convulsive fingers gripped the telephone book and dragged it with him.

Hugo Verbeck sprawled upon the floor.

The door of the office slammed. A strange hush followed; it seemed to pervade the building as well as this single office. Then came calls; feet pounded in the hallways. Late stayers had heard the shots. Voices neared Verbeck's office.

Some one opened the door and turned on the light. Two men in s.h.i.+rt sleeves gasped as they observed the sprawled form of Hugo Verbeck. One man moved inward, mechanically. The other stopped him.

"Call-call the police from my office," the man stammered. "Don't - don't touch anything in here.

It's-it's-there's been a murder. A murder!"

HALF an hour later, the police were in charge of Hugo Verbeck's office. A police surgeon was talking to a swarthy, stocky man who had just arrived. This fellow had an air of authority. It was natural, for he was taking charge of the case. He was Detective Joe Cardona, ace of the New York force, at present serving in capacity of acting inspector.

Bluecoats watched while Joe Cardona stalked about the room. There was challenge in the dark eyes of the detective; there was determination in the firmness of his swarthy visage. To Joe Cardona, the solution of crime was a grim game.

One look at the body. Joe Cardona nodded. He turned toward the door and measured the distance. He strode to that spot and turned to face the desk.

"The killer knew how to handle a gun," declared Cardona, firmly. "Three bullets, doctor, every one a realhit. The man we want will turn out to be a professional with the rod."

Some one was approaching in the hall. Cardona turned to face a wiry, friendly-faced chap. He recognized Clyde Burke, police reporter of the New York Cla.s.sic. Cardona scowled; then laughed.

"On the job already, eh?" questioned the detective. "I suppose you heard what I said? Well-you can put it in your sheet. The killer didn't try to cover up what he was. We'd be dumb if we didn't pick him as a regular thug."

That was all. Joe Cardona walked to the desk. His keen eyes spied the newspaper that Hugo Verbeck had been reading. They wandered to the telephone book that had spread out when it reached the floor.

"All right," announced Cardona, suddenly. "That's all. We'll look for the killer."

Clyde Burke had watched Cardona's eyes. The reporter saw Cardona's glance at the newspaper; then at the telephone book. Clyde realized that the detective had gained a hunch. Clyde, himself, had caught an inkling of it.

Joe Cardona was wondering if a connection existed between the latest news sensation and the murder of Hugo Verbeck. Clyde Burke, a keen journalist, had naturally asked himself the same question. Clyde had caught the train of Cardona's thoughts.

"I'm going down to headquarters," announced the detective. "There's nothing else, Burke. You'll have to see me later. To-morrow-"

"All right, Joe."

Cardona lingered in the office, to gather routine data. Clyde Burke departed. When he reached the street, the reporter was smiling. He stopped in a cigar store and entered a telephone booth. He dialed a number. A quiet voice responded: "Burbank speaking."

Clyde Burke began to talk. He was an agent of The Shadow. He was reciting facts concerning crimes to The Shadow's contact man.

"Report received," came Burbank's quiet announcement, when Clyde had finished his remarks.

"Instructions: keep close to Joe Cardona. Report all new developments promptly."

Clyde Burke left the telephone booth. He was confident that The Shadow would have a real beginning in the game of tracking crime. Clyde was sure that his report was already being forwarded by Burbank.

Perhaps it had already reached The Shadow.

For Clyde Burke had no inkling that The Shadow was not in New York. He did not know that Burbank was temporarily in charge of the active agents. Only Burbank knew the truth concerning The Shadow's whereabouts.

The contact man, stationed at a hidden post where Clyde and other active agents could report, was the only person who had the facts. Burbank alone knew that The Shadow was far away-a pa.s.senger aboard the Southern Star which to-night was steaming into Bridgetown, the princ.i.p.al harbor of Barbados!

CHAPTER VIII. THE MAN WHO FEARED.

LATE the following afternoon, a chubby-faced man was seated at a desk by the window of an officehigh in the towering Badger Building. Complacent, leisurely in action, he was studying an evening newspaper which was spread on the desk before him.

A ring at the telephone. The chubby-faced fellow stretched out his hand and took the instrument. He spoke in a voice that was almost a drawl: "Rutledge Mann speaking... Yes, Rutledge Mann, investments... Ah, yes, Mr. Brooks. I have arranged for the purchase of the securities that you require... Yes, they will be here at my office... Ten o'clock tomorrow morning."

The receiver clicked. Mann returned to his study of the newspaper. He seemed well suited to his chosen business. As an investment broker, Mann had an easy, unruffled manner that gained the confidence of his clients.

Early lights were twinkling in the dusk outside the window. Mann needed none, for his office, facing to the west, was still well illuminated by the setting sun. Apparently, Mann's work was finished for the day; but the investment broker showed no signs of leaving, nor did he look toward the window, to view the twinkling lights that were appearing in Manhattan's towers.

Drawing a pair of scissors from his pocket, Mann began to clip items from the evening newspaper.

Certain paragraphs referred to Torrence Dilgin; others to Edwin Berlett; more, however, concerned the murder of Hugo Verbeck. Mann laid the clippings on his desk. He opened a drawer. From it, he produced other clippings. He placed the entire batch in an envelope.

From another drawer, Mann produced two yellow papers. One was a radiogram from the Steams.h.i.+p Southern Star; the other, a cable from Barbados, where the liner had docked this very day. Both messages referred to investments; both were signed Lamont Cranston.

Rutledge Mann was an agent of The Shadow. Serving in that secret capacity, he was a useful cog in The Shadow's anti-crime machine. Yet there was a puzzled look on Mann's face as the investment broker studied the yellow messages. Mann himself did not know their meaning!

RUTLEDGE MANN had received messages from The Shadow. Ordinarily, he would have supposed these to be such. But the securities mentioned were ones that Mann did not recognize. Hence he supposed that the messages were for The Shadow -not from him. Even to such trusted agents as Mann, The Shadow remained a mystery.

Mann placed the messages in the envelope that held the clippings. Sealing the container, he arose from his desk. He left the office and descended to Broadway. There he hailed a cab and rode to Twenty-third Street. Strolling along the old-fas.h.i.+oned thoroughfare, Mann paused at the entrance of a dilapidated building. He entered.

Ascending a creaky stairway, Mann stopped before an isolated door that bore a name up its grimy gla.s.s panel. The t.i.tle on the frosting read: B. JONAS.

Mann dropped his envelope in a mail slit. He left the door and descended to the street. His work was done. It was Mann's duty to forward clippings, messages and written reports to The Shadow. Mann had never seen any one enter the office that bore the name of Jonas. Yet he knew that envelopes deposited there invariably reached The Shadow.

Minutes pa.s.sed outside of the office with the grimy pane. The little hallway was illuminated by a flickeringgas jet. Under ordinary circ.u.mstances, it would have remained deserted; for The Shadow used a secret entrance when he paid his visits to this secluded spot. Present circ.u.mstances, however, were not ordinary. The Shadow, despite Mann's belief to the contrary, was absent from New York.

Light footsteps sounded in the hall. A man appeared. He was of medium height. His features were obscured, not by design, but merely because the light jet was behind his head. The arrival drew a key from his pocket. He inserted it in the door marked "B. Jonas." The lock grated. The door whined as it opened inward. Cobwebs were wrenched from their moorings.

Rutledge Mann's envelope was lying on the floor just inside the door. The newcomer picked up the packet, retired to the hall and locked the door behind him. His face was again obscure as he departed, for he was looking at the envelope which he had gained. He thrust the packet in his pocket as he descended the stairs.

Dusk had settled when the man with the envelope reached the street. His countenance was still obscure in the intermittent light of street lamps as he walked rapidly toward an avenue. Following the structure of an elevated, the man reached a quiet side street. He entered an old house and paused in the darkness of the vestibule. He bolted the door behind him.

The man ascended a darkened flight of steps. He reached a room on the second floor. Drawn shades made the place totally dark. Closing the door behind him, the man groped his way to a chair, and seated himself. He pulled a cord; a lamp light glowed above his head, behind his back.

The man was seated at a little table. In front of him was a switchboard. Beside him was a filing cabinet. A light was glowing on the switchboard; the man plugged in hastily and spoke in a quiet tone: "Burbank speaking."

This was Burbank, contact agent of The Shadow! He, alone, knew that the chief was not in New York.

Following complete instructions, this trusted operative was directing activities of other agents until The Shadow might return.

CLYDE BURKE'S voice came over the wire, in response to Burbank's statement of ident.i.ty. This telephone was hooked up with a regular unlisted number. The Shadow's agents knew its number; it was through Burbank that they made their calls to be relayed to The Shadow.

"Report," ordered Burbank.

"Just left headquarters," informed Clyde. "Talking with Cardona when he got a call from the police commissioner. Cardona talked cagey because I was around. But he's leaving in half an hour and he's going to meet the commissioner somewhere."

"Report received," returned Burbank.

The contact man pulled the plug from the switchboard. He waited; then formed a new connection. He dialed. A voice responded: "Hotel Metrolite."

"Room 1412," ordered Burbank.

A few moments later, a man's voice came over the wire. Quietly, Burbank questioned: "Is this Mr. Sully?" "No," came the response. "This is Mr. Vincent-Room 1412-"

"Sorry," apologized Burbank. "My mistake."

In that call, Burbank had delivered a double message. He had actually wanted Room 1412 at the Metrolite, for that was the room occupied by Harry Vincent, agent of The Shadow. But Burbank had not wanted to give instructions over a wire on which an operator might be listening in.

Harry had recognized Burbank's tones. The giving of a false name was merely a signal that he was to call back to Burbank. There was a further significance, however. The name Sully began with the letter S.

That meant that Harry should proceed southward from the Metrolite while on his way to make the return call. Thus Burbank was automatically heading Harry in the direction which he must later take.

Five minutes pa.s.sed. During the interim, Burbank had drawn Mann's envelope from his pocket. He was reading the radiogram and the cable. Burbank's head was in front of the lamp; his face still remained hazy. But the messages that he was reading were lying in an illuminated spot.

Turning to the filing cabinet, Burbank drew out a folder. It proved to be a book of coded names. With its aid, Burbank was ready to decipher the messages that had come from The Shadow. Before he was able to start, a light glowed on the switchboard.

It was Harry Vincent. The active agent was calling from a pay station five blocks below the Metrolite.

Burbank was terse in his instructions.

"Cover headquarters," he ordered. "Cardona leaving in less than twenty-five minutes. Report where he goes."

"Instructions received," came Harry's response.

The light went out. Ten minutes pa.s.sed, while Burbank decoded the messages from the Southern Star and Barbados. The contact mail was making penciled notations when a glow came from the switchboard.

"Burbank speaking," announced the contact man, as he plugged in.

"Marsland," came a steady voice over the wire. "Still out at the airport. The plane is late. Not expected for another hour. Thought I'd better send in word."

"Report received," returned Burbank.

THE contact man returned to his deciphering. These were not the only messages that he had received through Rutledge Mann. Previous radiograms had come from the Southern Star, bearing terse, condensed messages. But the code words used were parts of a remarkably complicated system. Orders to buy shares; to wait for fractional point risings; dates and names of securities-all formed a part in this cipher that permitted thousands of variations.

Men of wealth like Lamont Cranston frequently kept in touch with their investment brokers while inbound to New York. These messages could not possibly have excited suspicions. Burbank had sent one reply back through Mann. No more would be necessary. The cablegram from Barbados told that The Shadow was coming in by plane.

Thirty minutes-forty-the time pa.s.sed while Burbank sat stolidly at his post. The contact man was slowly chewing on a stick of gum. To Burbank, long, lone vigils were nothing. He was not a man of action; he was one of endurance.

Prompt, precise and always dependable, Burbank had served The Shadow well. His post was the connecting link between The Shadow and the agents in the field. When emergency demanded, Burbank served as he now was serving. Instead of making calls to the deserted sanctum, he was issuing orders in The Shadow's stead.

The light showed on the switchboard. Burbank plugged in and spoke. It was Harry Vincent, announcing that he had trailed Joe Cardona, using taxis to follow the detective's car. Joe had gone in an ordinary machine, not in a police automobile.

The trail had led to an old house in the Nineties. Joe's car had parked alongside a limousine that Harry had recognized as belonging to Police Commissioner Ralph Weston. Harry was reporting the address.

The report received, Burbank turned to the files. He obtained a listing of telephones arranged according to street addresses. He found the one he wanted; with it was the name of Kelwood Markin.

Taking an ordinary telephone book, Burbank checked by finding Kelwood Markin's name in the big volume. But Burbank did not stop there. He ran down the list of Markins-which was a short one-and found this listing at the bottom: Markin Tharxell... attys... Bushkill Bldg... DUblin 6-9438 There was no Markin listed as an attorney, under his own name. In the book, however, Burbank found the name of George Tharxell, listed as an attorney, in the Bushkill Building. Burbank made a penciled notation. Presumably, Kelwood Markin was the onetime senior of the firm, now no longer engaged in active work. Burbank filed this supposition for investigation on the morrow.

HARRY VINCENT'S trail had ended at the old house in the Nineties. Burbank had gone further; he had gained some useful data concerning the person who resided in that house. Between them, The Shadow's agents had learned much about the man whom Cardona and the police commissioner were visiting. But they had not been able to penetrate to the actual scene within Markin's house. Only The Shadow could have done such work as that.

Police Commissioner Ralph Weston and Acting Inspector Joe Cardona were seated in a comfortable living room, which seemed hushed by its dark-papered walls and heavy curtains. Before them was a stooped-shouldered man, whose eyes were keen despite the age that showed upon his withered face.

There was pleading in Kelwood Markin's eyes. His thin hands trembling as they clutched a small table before his chair, the old man was speaking earnestly.

"I am an attorney," he was announcing. "I know the law, commissioner. I know that it is impossible to arrest a murderer without actual evidence against him. But this man is a double killer.

"Two persons have gone to their deaths at his order. I am sure of it, commissioner. It was he who designed the killing of Edwin Berlett. He is responsible for the murder of Hugo Verbeck.

"But that is not all. This fiend"-Markin's lips quivered with the p.r.o.nouncement-"will be sure to murder others. How many, I do not know; but I can promise you that one, at least, is marked for death."

"Do you know the name of the potential murderer?" inquired Weston.

"Yes," a.s.sured Markin. "But he is more than potential. He is actually a murderer."

"And the potential victim?" "Yes. I know him also."

A pause. It was Detective Joe Cardona, weighing the duties of active inspector, who put the question that he thought most important.

"Who is the murderer?" demanded Joe.

"His name," announced Markin, raising a shaky hand, "is Lester Dorrington."

A look of incredulity showed on Cardona's face. Cardona knew Dorrington by reputation. The man was renowned in New York as a criminal lawyer Cardona sat stupefied.

The old attorney had delivered the accusation in a hushed voice. His lips were quivering, now that he had named the man whom he suspected as a villain.

It was Commissioner Weston, unstunned by Markin's p.r.o.nouncement, who put the next question. The commissioner's train of thought was different from Cardona's. Weston was looking beyond the murderer; anxious to foresee the menace of some coming crime.

"You have named the murderer," declared Weston, in a steady tone. "Tell us the name of the man whom you are sure that he will seek to kill. Who is to be his victim?"